


Pink Matter

by Amazonianbibliophile



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Black Character(s), Drabble, F/M, Kinda, Samurai, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 09:05:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17281154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amazonianbibliophile/pseuds/Amazonianbibliophile
Summary: Takashi finds her and submits.





	Pink Matter

**Author's Note:**

> First fanfic. This is honestly just an experiment...and because Shiro is hot.

* swish * * swish *

 

The sounds of bokken hitting each other rang miles outside of the dojo and through the subdued silence of the forest.

 

He knew he was here.

 

Her dojo. Sensei Akinwaje’s Kendo dojo.

 

As he approached the dojo, the muscles in his thighs no longer ached. Instead, they felt light with anticipation. Suddenly, he was debilitatingly aware of his dirt-smudged face. He could feel the dirt crusting the scar on his nose. He felt the jagged edges of his ripped kimono. Of the stench of his days-old hair cropped short and greyed with dust.

 

He shouldn’t care about his appearance, he chastised himself. She wouldn’t care. What was important was his commitment to mastering his skills.

 

He tightened his grip on his katana. He was ready.  
He was attracted to her. Of course. Since the very first time he saw her fighting in his village, sand spewing around her like angel wings, her white braids flying wildly around her as her sword thrust into the bandits accosting his town.

 

But that wasn’t why he was here, sitting demurely with folded legs at her feet.

 

“You clean up very nicely Takashi Shirogane.”

 

He felt his cheeks flame. He kept his eyes on her feet. Silent. To look at her face would be fatal. Those full ruddy brown lips---no.

 

Concentrate Takashi!

 

“Catch.”

 

Only years of street fighting in Kyoto enabled him to catch the flying bokken despite his conflicted thoughts.

 

“So you want to be my student? First I need to see if there is potential.”

 

Sparring with her was like trying to keep up with an elegant and exotic bird. She carried herself with poise and let her waist-length braids hang free. She didn’t tie up her hair like traditional Samurai. Instead, they acted as small whips, an unexpected part of her attack.

 

Her yukata hugged her curves sinfully. Perhaps the yukata wasn’t meant for full-bodied women like Sensei. He thought this as she shoved him to the floor with a brutal thrust of her sword. The thick mats of the dojo were the only mitigating force against the pain of impact.

 

From that angle, he looked up at her shapely legs. Bronze and toned with years of fighting and training.

 

It was futile. Unable to look her in the face, in her eyes, he pushed himself up with his head down. Sparring was a defence of his heart against the barrage of this beautiful woman.

 

“Takashi.” Her movement stilled. Her breast shook slightly at the sudden movement—shit!

 

Looking at her for the first time in the eyes. She wore a tired expression on her face.

 

“What is a woman to you? Is she just a container for the child?”

 

Stunned by the question, his mouth opened.

 

Then he took a stance, facing his bukkon towards her.

 

“Sensei, what is a brain? Is it just a container for the mind?”

 

It was bold. To answer her question with another question.

 

“Tch.” The spread of brilliant white, canvassed by petal soft lips. A smile. A success.

He had to look her in the eyes now. Yes, his shameful desire would be obvious as he took in her brown almond shaped eyes curtained with thick black lashes. But to show respect, to show his devotion to learn, he would—he had to show her.

 

Patience yields focus.

 

They sparred until they were tired. Their geta sandals created a staccato beat as they danced. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Her braids continued to whip him with the force of her movements.

 

He tripped her. It was dirty, but that was the street fighter in him. As she fell he moved to bracket her body between his. He hit her bukkon hard---it fell from her grip to the side of her face.

He held her wrists in one hand. The other pointed the bukkon under her diaphragm. Their eyes met. Ice met fire.

 

“Submit.”

“The way of the Samurai is not with dirty tricks. You will never gain respect or honour with that.”

 

“That’s why I’m here Sensei. Teach me honour.”

 

Those hips under him jerked. Thighs below him twisted around his body with a death vice. Suddenly, he felt his body slam against the floor. A warm body around him, on him.

 

A hand on his chest, pressing on his pectorals.

 

“Submit Shirogane.”

 

The smell of mangoes and peaches filled the air. Perhaps from the trees outside, perhaps from within her thighs. The weight of those thighs, the warmth emanating from between her legs, pressing against—a husky groan escaped.

 

Flushed with shame, he had to stop this.

 

“I submit Sensei.”

 

His gazed focused on the daintiness of her collarbones. Their structure was more pronounced under the contrast of her dark brown skin against the crème white of her yukata.

 

She pressed down harder against him. She must feel it. Fuck his whole journey to Hiroshima would be for nothing. He could have popped a boner in the privacy of his own home and rubbed it out like the animal he was.

 

“Takashi look at me.”

 

Eyes burning.

 

“I will teach you. Honour, patience…and confidence.”

 

The last word was said with a whisper in his ear.

 

“I start at sunrise. Don’t be late.”


End file.
